


Christmas Eve

by GirlWithTheMousyHair



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 17:53:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3859426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlWithTheMousyHair/pseuds/GirlWithTheMousyHair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve, and Sam tries to avoid either being dragged to the pub, or dragged into a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Eve

‘Not coming, Boss?’ 

It is lunch time on Christmas Eve, and the place has evacuated as though there’s been a bomb scare. Quicker, in fact, and with fewer jokes. Sam knows that nobody will be coming back for the rest of the afternoon, and he can’t say that he minds. The office is empty, save for him and, it seems now, Chris. 

‘No, Chris, I’ll stay here. Things to do.’ Sam has never been too fussed on Christmas anyway, but this year, trapped out of his own time and place, he feels the sting of a festive season spent alone. He doesn’t look up from his paperwork as he answers Chris - he feels as though he’s right on the edge of some unknown emotional chasm, and if he sees the well-meaning look in the other man’s face it might tip him over. Sometimes the last thing you need is someone being nice. 

‘You don’t even wanna come for a pint? A quick one, like?’ He actually sounds hopeful, as though he wants Sam to come. 

‘Honestly Chris, you go ahead.’ He risks a glance up, trying to smile around his clenched jaw, every muscle in his face feeling tight. Sure enough, Chris looks disappointed. 

‘But it’s Christmas Eve, boss.’ Sam feels like he’s kicked a whole basketful of puppies. 

‘Crime still happens at Christmas, you know,’ he says, trying to sound robust but really sounding peevish. He looks back at the papers on his desk, unable to stand letting Chris down but equally unable to even think of going with him. ‘Drink driving, fights in the pub, arguments over the last turkey in the shop...’ 

Chris shuffles his feet, then says timidly, ‘Not really our division, that, Boss.’ 

Sam can’t really deny that, but if he goes to the pub he’ll either end up crying in the toilets or punching someone, or punching someone in the toilets while crying, and nobody needs that. He stays silent, as though Chris hasn’t spoken, and turns a page in the file in front of him, as though he’d managed to read any of it. 

‘Come on, Boss. Won’t be the same without you there.’ 

This was the wrong thing to say, and it turns out that there is a third option: shouting. No matter how he tries to remind himself that Chris doesn’t know how he feels, and is actually trying to do the right thing, Sam hears his voice grow sharper and thinner, like a well-honed blade. 

‘I’m sure it won’t, Chris. Ray will just have to find someone else to take the piss out of, though, won’t he?’

‘Don’t be like that. The Guv...’ 

‘And him,’ Sam has looked up again, and even though he’s trying to rein it in he’s gone over the edge, he knew he would, and he also knows he’ll regret it when the moment passes but he can’t help it, his misery and anger pour out in a bitter tirade. ‘The Guv and all, he’ll have to find himself some other stupid bastard to take the brunt of his jokes and hide his keys when he’s had too much to drink and drive him half way across the city and then walk back in the freezing cold, won’t he? He’ll just have to buy his own bloody Scotch, and make his own bloody coffee if he’s too drunk to stand up, and find his own bloody car which is where he bloody parked it in the first bloody place but he didn’t bother to bloody remember because, oh, Gladys will remember. Forget it.’ 

He turns savagely to the next page in the file, giving himself a papercut that he both relishes and regrets. He can feel the tips of his ears redden, knows he’s given himself a showing up, that he’s shouted at someone who doesn’t deserve it, and that now he’s going to have to apologise. That fabled red mist never lasts as long as it does in the books. He already feels bad. He heaves a sigh, and pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut, before looking back up.

Chris is gawping back at him, as well he might… Except no, he’s not. He’s gawping past him. Behind him. 

Oh for Christ’s sake. Surely Gene isn’t… But of course he is. He’s standing behind him. He’s probably leaning in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled up, cigarette in the corner of his mouth. No doubt he’s about to ask for a word in Sam’s shell-like. 

Chris looks back at Sam, even more lost for words than usual. Sam just nods his head slowly. 

‘Sorry, Chris. I’m really sorry. Shouldn’t have taken it out on you, mate. Go on, get yourself down the pub.’ 

‘But...’ 

‘I know.’

‘The Guv...’ Chris’ voice has lowered to an almost-whisper now, as though if he speaks softly enough Gene won’t be able to hear him. Sam continues to nod, and gives the best smile he can muster up. 

‘I know, Chris, I know. It’s alright. Off you go, you don’t want to be here for this.’

Chris nods back, as though hypnotised, and turns to go. As he grabs his coat, he looks back over his shoulder. 

‘Merry Christmas, Boss.’ He pauses, but manners get the better of him. ‘Merry Christmas, Guv.’ 

Sam raises a defeated hand in a farewell. ‘Bye Chris. Merry Christmas.’ 

‘Humbug,’ says the familiar voice behind him. Chris half-runs through the door, not looking back. Sam closes his eyes for another moment, before turning in his chair to face his opponent. Gene looks at him impassively from the doorway, where he’s been leaning just as Sam pictured him, right down to the smouldering cigarette between his lips. 

‘Thought you were gone,’ says Sam, redundantly. 

‘Couldn’t remember where I parked the motor, could I?’ Gene replies, his tone dry. He takes the fag out of his mouth and steps forward to crush it out in an ashtray on the nearest desk. Sam supposes he should apologise for what he said. It had been unprofessional, and just because everyone else acts like something out of a boys’ adventure magazine doesn’t mean he should let his own standards slip. Just as he draws breath to do it, Gene interrupts. 

‘Mean all that, did you?’ 

Sam sits with his mouth open, trying to formulate a reply. It takes longer than it should, and Gene dismisses his own question with a snort. 

‘That’s my answer, then. Bloody hell Gladys, thought this was the season of goodwill.’ 

Does he look hurt? Does he actually have the cheek to look wounded by Sam’s words? By the baby Jesus, Sam thinks he does. 

‘Guv… Gene. I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s a tough time of year. I shouldn’t have said those things.’ 

Gene regards him steadily. ‘Anything else to get off your chest? Shouldn’t bottle your feelings up, Sammy-boy. Not good for you.’ 

Sam shakes his head, feeling even worse than he had before. If Gene had shouted it would have been much better. Now he feels guilty as well as emotionally unstable. Sam just wants to be alone, and bury himself in paperwork or tidying old files or cleaning the cells or whatever he can do to take his mind off all the people, and places, he is missing. 

‘Sorry Guv,’ he says again, keen to usher Gene out of the office and down to the pub as soon as possible. There is a pause between them, where Sam looks down at the cut on his finger and the tiny smear of red where he’s rubbed at it. He hears Gene go back through the door and his shoulders drop. He turns back to the file on his desk, and he starts at the beginning again. He hears the Guv moving around, opening and shutting drawers, clanking and banging at a completely unnecessary level. Sam know he won’t be able to concentrate until he’s alone, but he tries his best anyway. 

 

He hears Gene come back through the swinging doors, and make his way across the office. Thank God, he’s going. Sam will soon be alone with his shame and sadness. As the Guv reaches the desk Sam’s sitting at, Sam half expects a blow to land - one of those ‘friendly fire’ punches that Gene excels in - and so when something lands on his desk he flinches, despite himself. 

Furious that his own body has betrayed him, and starting to feel exhausted by the gamut of emotions he’s been running in the last half hour, Sam looks to his desk. The mystery object is a crystal glass - not one of the usual smeary, chipped tumblers from Gene’s office, but a genuine crystal glass. As he takes this in, it begins to fill with a familiar amber liquid, and he turns his eyes up to see Gene pouring out a very creditable single malt. Once again he’s lost for words and gapes up at his DCI, feeling not unlike Chris. 

Gene huffs what might be a laugh at him, turning the bottle to his own glass and pouring a generous measure. He holds out his glass to Sam, who slowly takes up his own and clinks them gently together. 

‘Cheers,’ says Gene shortly, knocking about two thirds of his drink back in one. Sam sips at his own, relishing the smoothness of the malt in place of the usual burn. He still hasn’t said anything, and when Gene looks at him, all he can do is raise his eyebrows in a silent question. Gene shrugs, in answer. 

‘Christmas, innit?’ 

Sam nods. ‘Yeah. Yeah I suppose it is.’ 

Gene finishes his glass and pours another - Sam never fails to be astounded by the capacity the man has for alcohol. 

‘You not going to the pub, Guv?’ he asks, finally finding something to say. 

‘Sit around with that lot on Christmas Eve? You joking? See enough of them all the rest of the year.’ 

Sam gives a watery smile. ‘Home, then?’

Gene chooses to avoid this question. ‘What about you? Don’t you want to get back to Hyde?’ 

Sam chooses to avoid this, in turn. 

‘Looks like we’re both at a loose end, then,’ he says, instead of an answer. 

‘Right. And you know what, Sammy?’ 

‘What?’ Sam asks, genuinely at a loss as to what’s coming next. 

‘It could be worse.’ Gene raises his glass again, and Sam connects his own more firmly this time, with a smile that blooms from nowhere. 

‘Cheers Guv.’ 

‘Cheers Sam.’

A pause. 

‘I’m not doing any bloody paperwork, so don’t ask.’


End file.
